Wednesday, December 16, 2015

I know a large majority of single people want to
murder/suicide themselves during the holidays. I have my struggles with it too.
Like how my mom always wants to get “couple” pictures next to the Christmas
tree. I watch my married siblings pose with their wives. I smile while secretly
wishing the Christmas tree would explode. Since I’m inherently single, or
dating someone gross or without enough brain cells to function in public, I either
pose with my dog, if he even loves me enough to allow this, or with a bottle of
wine. This would be probably the 10th year of that. Nothing tragic at all about
it. Seriously, I LIVE for this moment. These are tears of joy guys, FOR REAL!!

I’ve decided that instead of being bummed about being
single and alone and unloved and barren during the holidays, I’m going to be
fucking stoked on life and focus on the positive. Weeeeeeeee!!! Here’s why.

1. I don’t have to buy some stupid dick a present.

The last time I bought a dude a Christmas present I was
super proud of myself. I did some subtle questioning and research and found the
perfect gift. Seriously. It was guaranteed to get me all the oral for months.
It was somewhat expensive but I didn’t care because I knew I nailed it. As dickhead
opened his present, I sat there waiting for all the squeals and compliments and
child-like joy. Instead, he opened it, surveyed it, made some comment that a
dickhead would make like “Oh, this is cool” and that was it. ARE YOU FUCKING
KIDDING ME!? And then, when I opened the stupid knee high socks and slutty
school girl ensemble he bought me and acted less than stoked about it, he
pouted. LIKE A DICKHEAD. I’m sorry I didn’t jizz my pants over your Hot Topic
purchases when I dropped two Benjamins on your super awesome present. NEVER
AGAIN.

2. I don’t have to hang out with a dick’s
rude/boring/batshit crazy family.

I’ve done the meet the family thing with exactly three
dudes. My family hated all of them. So there’s that. In hindsight I completely
agree and wish that my brothers had actually murdered them and buried them in
the backyard like their instincts told them to do. Would’ve saved me a lot of
wasted money on condoms, Plan B, booze and pills to help me forget I was in a
god awful relationship. (Well let’s be real, the booze and pills would’ve
happened anyway.) The dudes that have been blessed to hang out with my family
had a great fucking time. We eat delicious foods. We drink until we blackout.
We play beer pong outside until it rains and then just drag that shit inside.
It’s a complete win. I haven’t had the same experience when I’m forced to hang
out with a dickhead’s family. Generally they don’t get it. They don’t
understand why I have pink/blue/purple/orange/green hair and tattoos and
piercings but I’m not homeless or a prostitute. They don’t understand why when
they ask me when I’m planning on getting married and popping out children I
laugh, chug my wine/vodka/whiskey/roofie and exclaim “NOPE” loudly into their
mouth hole. They don’t understand why by the end of the interaction I’m staring
at their loved one with hatred and wondering if I could start a forest fire in
their house. Unless your aunt that had all the abortions in high school gets
blacked out, drags me into the kitchen, and tells me all the dirty secrets of
your family while feeding me shots, I don’t give a fuck about your family. I’ll
be in Buena Park taking my pants off and trying to sit on my sister-in-law’s
lap. Merry Fucking Christmas whores.

3. I can wear sweatpants all day every day and shave my
legs NEVER.

My favorite winter look is the homeless, I put on every article
of clothing I own because I have no other choice, inspired ensemble. I want to
wear all my sweaters, jackets, scarves and leggings under sweatpants. I realize
that dudes think yoga pants are hot because they get sucked into your asshole
and give you super sexy cameltoe. However I am also aware that sweatpants make
you single. If you weren’t already single, you are now. Congrats! If I have a
dickhead in my life during the holidays it really fucks with my life. I have to
wear yoga pants in lieu of sweatpants and now have a permanent front and back
wedgie. Also now all the cunts in Long Beach that actually go to Yoga and
Pilates and Cross-Cunt or whatever the fuck it is have full reign to give me side
eye because we both know my ass isn’t going to work out. I’m going to the bar.
To get really drunk so I don’t feel embarrassed to pull out my wedgies in
public. Being dickhead free means I only have to shave my legs wherever skin
shows. I don’t have to brush my hair until like noon because I have no
interaction with any other human before then. I can wear sweatpants and two
sweatshirts and four scarves at all times within the confines of my home. And
guess what? No one tries to mug me because they assume I’m one of them. BAM. Nailed
it!

And the best part of being single during the holidays:

4. I can bang ALL the dudes on New Year’s Eve.

Yup. That’s right. I can stick my tongue in everyone’s
mouth. I can participate in a glitter orgy. Or a bubble orgy. Or a syrup orgy.
Okay maybe not syrup. That sounds fucking gross. But glitter and bubbles? Fuck
yeah! Oh you’re making out with your boyfriend for the 6th year in a row? Cool.
FUCKING LOSERS. I’m making out with a guy named “Red Jacket” and then I’m gonna
make out with a guy named “Suspenders” and maybe even throw in a little 2nd
base action with “Zach Morris Hair”. This will go down while the couples stand
around sadly, wishing they had my life, but pretending that they’re disgusted.
I see you Sarah and Bobby. I know you want to be fisted by a man covered in
glitter. And bubbles. Maybe next year fuckers!!

So while I could send out Christmas cards of me wearing matching
sweaters with my geriatric pets and signing it with my tears, I’m gonna not do
that. I’m gonna be glad I don’t have to deal with a dickhead and that my furry kids
don’t even know what Christmas is so I don’t have to buy them shit. Also I know
that my parents will provide all the drinks for Christmas dinner and don’t care
if I’m blacked out by 8:00 p.m. and screaming obscenities at the neighbors.

Sidenote: If I land myself a rich daddy in the next 9
days, disregard everything I’ve just said. I’ll take some Chanel sunglasses,
one of those chain purses and let’s throw in a faux fur coat. Thanks daddy!!

Monday, December 7, 2015

I heard something so offensive the
other day that I almost offered myself to ISIS to be a suicide bomber because I
couldn’t even handle that was happening in this world. (Too soon? Sorry, not
sorry.)

My coworker was talking about her family getting
together for the holidays and mentioned how she was super excited to see her
younger sister, but she was also a little hesitant because little sis is kind
of a Judge Judy and my coworker is recently separated from her douche husband
and has been gettin some side D. Like lots of side D. I’m basically living
vicariously through her vagina because it’s being worked harder than that
wrecking ball in Miley Cyrus’s music video. Anyway, let me move on from my
bitterness and get back to the story. I asked her why her sister would be mad
about her having a Stella got her groove back moment. Then she said her sister
is a 30 year old virgin and plans on staying that way until marriage. After I
made a lot of weird noises in my throat and the muscle spasms in my face calmed
down, I basically screamed at her to repeat herself. (How I still have a job is
a fucking miracle.) In all seriousness, I thought virgins were extinct after
the age of 25. Or at least there are about as many as those nearly extinct
albino rhinos. Even the Mormons are smart enough to get married at like 14 so they
can get it in. If my mind had been a virgin, this would have been an epic
milestone because this conversation fucked my mind super hard.

So then I was thinking maybe she just doesn’t date. I
guess if you’ve never had a serious boo or at least someone who didn’t make you
barf in your mouth and you could hang out with for more than a few hours, maybe
penetration was never on the table. (P.S. penetration on a table should ALWAYS
be on the table) I have a few friends (ok maybe like 1.5 friends) that only get
down with people they are seriously dating. In my opinion they’re boring as
shit but you know, life choices, life goals, what the fuck ever. Maybe it’s not
everyone’s jam to fuck a stranger at a wedding in your car in the hotel parking
lot. Allegedly.

But then I found out that this chick has had lots of
serious boos. I assumed at this point that maybe she’s an under the bridge
troll and if she doesn’t party she’s never had the chance to roofie someone to
get it in. Nope. She’s attractive and my coworker once talked about how she had
a friend with a super stinky vagina so I know she’d out her sister if her downstairs
was all fucked up. At this point I was extremely confused and had to take a
muscle relaxer so I could black out for a few minutes and not think before my
brain exploded.

I blacked in about 10 minutes later and started
thinking, are there people dating and in serious relationships who aren’t
boning down? This can’t be happening in the world. What would you do with
someone that you spend most of your time with if you aren’t naked at least 80%
of that time? Do you talk about things? Dumb. Do you have couple hobbies like
fishing or gardening or landscaping? Dear god shoot me in the face. The only reason
I can be convinced to be in a relationship is the guarantee of regular D. Not
having to put on pants and eyeliner and be charming is fucking magical. If all
I have to do is roll over, this is a life worth living.

Maybe that’s why I’m such a disaster. Maybe you’re
supposed to be in a relationship because you like the other person even if they
aren’t giving you orgasms. Wait, no. I refuse to accept this. Call me shallow,
but once the naked parties die down I’m out. I’m jumping off the Titanic and I’m
not sharing my door, even if logically it could fit 3-4 people. Sorry bitches,
I need room to stretch out.

So to my 30 year old virgins out there, you do you. If
your vagina still loves you even though you ignore her, that’s rad. My vagina
is not peaceful. She’s a vengeful, angry little demon and I know better than to
disappoint her. Let me rephrase that. I disappoint her quite often but at least
we have memories of some quality D we can talk about and help us forget the bad
times. Also, just a warning, if you’re holding off on getting rid of your hymen
because you think your first time is going to be magical, you’re going to want
to kill yourself. I’m not kidding. My suggestion, drink a lot, take a muscle
relaxer, and lower your expectations. Maybe actually have no expectations. Choose
someone attractive because there’s going to be a lot of awkward eye contact. And
for fuck’s sake do not choose another virgin. It’s weird enough without two
people sweating and flopping around like an injured sea lion. Oh and best of
luck. Here’s hoping you don’t turn into a terminal TFDer like me. (Seriously, don’t.
I don’t need any more competition.)

Glossary (for those of you that aren’t avid readers and need
to know what’s happening):

Monday, November 23, 2015

Friends, family members, and strangers that have the unfortunate luck to stand anywhere near me in a public place have likely heard one of my rants against the Disney franchise. Maybe you're sick of hearing it but I don't give a fuck. I'm at work, hating everything because I day drank yesterday, and no one believes that my shakes are from meningitis so it looks like my ass is stuck here for the next 7 hours. I went to college for this. Welcome to my hell.

I saw some shit online about Disneyland and it inspired my third rage blackout of the day. The first was when I discovered that my blacked out ass knocked Ibuprofen all over my kitchen last night and the second was when I stepped on a dripping wet pee pad after I had just dragged my ass out in public so my dog could pee on someone else's property. Again, I went to college and this is my life.

I've never been a Disney fan. My mom said she was so excited to take me to Disneyland for the first time when I was like 4 years old and the second I saw one of the characters I screamed my ass off and ran for the exit and tried to leave with an Asian family. Why was anyone surprised? It's a total mindfuck that you see these people and talking clocks and shit on your TV and then all of a sudden it's standing in front of you trying to touch you. NOT running like hell and screaming your ass off seems abnormal. What kind of life lessons are we teaching our children? If I had kids you're god damn right I'd be telling them that if a candelabra tries to touch them they should run for their fucking lives. Also I've seen the way Goofy pelvic thrusts at children. Keep your dick away from us Goofy you son of a bitch.

Can we also talk about how Disney movies ruin your life? Apparently when you wish upon a star your mom dies, or your dad dies, or you get pricked and sleep forever, or little demon dwarfs make you their bitch. The people that work for Disney clearly have daddy/mommy/aunt/uncle/grandpa/grandma issues. Ya'all are fucked up. I had nightmares that my mom was going to be shot (Bambi style) or just pack her shit and leave me one day (almost all other Disney movies). No one has a great Mom in Disney movies. And if you have a cool Dad? Oh, well he's gonna die too. Maybe your Uncle pushes him off a cliff and you watch him fall to his death. Or maybe he marries some evil cunt who kills his ass to pay for her vaginal reconstruction or whatever. Either way, your going to be alone and unloved. Something to really look forward to!

I also blame Disney for turning us all into sad cat/dog ladies. Animals can talk and be your best friend. That's totally normal. Why wouldn't you have mice and birds helping you get dressed in the morning? Why wouldn't my dog respond when I ask him to back the fuck up and give me 10 more minutes of sleepy times? The people in Disney movies are generally assholes. So of course we should hate people and be friends with animals. Dear Disney, thank you for reaffirming to a child that people are twats and animals are your only friend. Clearly I've become a very well adjusted adult.

Can I also point out that Disney really fucks with our heads when they make us sexually attracted to animals? I mean, who didn't want to fuck Simba? I did. I wanted to get down so hard on that animated dick. I'm not even ashamed to admit that I was a little sexually attracted to Pumba. Don't you fucking judge me. To this day I'm more likely to leave a bar with a short chubby dude. But seriously, it's hard enough going through puberty and trying to understand what's happening to your body and now I have to worry about wanting to hump on animals? It's a miracle I made it to adulthood. Seriously. I probably have PETA waiting outside to throw paint or feces or something on me. Cool.

I also learned that you're never gonna get the high quality D unless you're white, helpless, preferably stupid, and supermodel smokin hot. Also, Prince Douchebag is gonna need you to be asleep so he doesn't have to listen to your ass talk. I'm not the damsel in distress type. I will probably start a bar fight before you and I walk my dog at 3:00 a.m. with my shank out ready to stab a bitch and I hammer shit into my walls all by my god damn self. I've played the helpless, dumb, opinion-less girl before and it's not my jam. I don't need to be rescued. If I'm asleep and you try to molest my mouth that's called assault. Although if you want to walk my dog for me at 3:00 a.m. so I don't have to put on pants, that's modern chivalry and I'm not mad about that. A true modern romance is two people getting blacked out at a bar, swapping STDs, and deciding to make it work and move in together because rent is high as fuck and sharing toilet cleaning duties with another person makes life slightly more bearable. This is the reality when you don't have a mouse to bleach your toilet for you.

If you're still waiting for your Prince Charming or if you've been arrested for trying to hump on a lion or inanimate object I get it and I think you should sue Disney. Class action lawsuit. Protests. All of it. I got your back.

Now I'm gonna go watch The Little Mermaid and count the phallic symbols and try to pretend I'm not still sexually attracted to Sebastian. Cheers.

Friday, November 20, 2015

I rarely ever dream. It’s not because I’m a soulless
bitch and hope has been replaced by Xanax. I mean that’s also true. But what I
mean is I’m usually medicated/blacked out when I go to sleep so my mind is a dead
zone. No cell service, no brain function; I’m basically Terri Schaivo. (Yes, I’m
quite aware I’m the worst person on the planet, bye.)

Sometimes though after a hard day of dealing with
dipshits and pee pads and cat litter strewn about my entire home, I’m girl down
with only half the normal amount of meds and booze. This was the situation a couple
of nights ago and I had a dream. Actually, it may be better qualified as a
mother fucking nightmare.

I’m ashamed to admit that I had a sex dream about an
ex-boyfriend. I know. It’s plagued me for days and last night I was so scared to
go to sleep I took two sleeping pills and drank a whole bottle of wine so today
I have the shakes and some fucked up wonk eye. (Just a reminder guys, I’m
totally single and available. Tweet me.)

I wouldn’t have minded a super hot sex dream. At this
point I probably have cob webs in my vagina and the other day I sneezed and
swear dust flew out of my basement. But this wasn’t a super hot sex dream. This
was a realistic nightmare.

I don’t think I need to go into super specific details
about my dream. Actually, fuck it. You’re getting the raw dog version of this
dream. No protection. If I have to live with this, so do you.

My nightmare started out at some party in a basement.
Like the basement in someone’s parents’ house, so clearly even in my dream life
I’m hanging out with some bottom feeders. Dream big? NOPE. I’ll dream small
thanks very much. Anyway, so I’m with some people that my sleeping pill made up
because I don’t know these bitches. But I have a boozy drink in my hand so
things aren’t too bad. Then I spot the ex. I wasn’t surprised to see him, so I’m
immediately suspicious of my dream self that she’s being a little hoe and
showed up here on purpose. TRAITOR!

The ex approaches and some
awkward small talk ensues. This is when I had to check myself and make sure
this wasn’t real life because awkward small talk is my real life, in my dream
life I’m nailing everything always. So I took a drink and it tasted more like
ginger ale than liquid drainer so I knew this wasn’t real. My real life drink
would have murdered my liver already. (Dream Jenn you need to step up your
boozing game, seriously.) All of a sudden I’m inviting the devil back to my
house. TO DO SEX. WHAT IS HAPPENING!?!?!? It was at this point that I know my
real life self barfed in her mouth because I woke up with the worst acid reflux
ever.

So we’re walking back to my
house, holding hands which again reassured me this wasn’t real life because we
never were hand holders, and Dream Jenn feels like this is totally ok. We get
to my house and it’s furniture in a god damn park. I don’t have a house. I have
the set-up of a house in a fucking park without walls, doors, a ceiling. Even
my Dream Life is a fucking tragedy. I may have roaches, termites and nails
coming out of my floor in my real life home, but at least I have a fucking
ceiling. Is it too late for my mom to have an abortion?

Dream Jenn realizes, oh shit,
I sleep in a park where people walk around. We can’t go to Pound Town here. I mean
it just wouldn’t be very romantic if a homeless person made this a double
penetration situation without my permission and a STD check printout first. So
then we make the responsible decision to just go to a stranger’s house and walk
in. Totally normal. Nothin weird about that. At this point the entire dream
universe is telling me I’m making a bad decision. Bare backing with Charlie
Sheen would be a better decision than the one I’m making right now. But one
thing I’m not is a quitter. The hunt for the D will go on.

We find a stranger’s house.
Walk right in. Maybe I’m not making a bad decision because this plan has worked
out perfectly. Empty house. Comfy looking bed. I’m about to swallow so many
mistakes right now. Things are getting serious but his penis is like a sad,
shriveled hose. It’s just there. Not doing anything. I mean I didn’t expect it
to put on tap shoes and give a performance (though how RAD would that be!?) but
I at least expected it to stand at attention. I’m just staring at this sad
penis and neither one of us are talking. (Again I had to double check this wasn’t
real life because I’m not having fun yet.) And then, his dick falls off. Let me
say that again…HIS DICK FALLS OFF OF HIS BODY AND HITS THE FLOOR. That thing
goes down harder and faster than Miley Cyrus on a bong. It was the dick splat
heard round the world.

Even in my dream life dudes
are disappointments. Seriously!? I live in a bed in a park and that’s not the
worst thing in my life? Jesus Christ.

Now every time someone utters
the phrase “man of my dreams” I’m going to picture a sad dick, lying on the
floor, completely useless and crushing all hope. My patronus would be a limp
dick. Take that Voldemort! I just threw a sad dick in your face! (Yeah, I
brought it back to Harry Potter. Fuck off.) Get a gun.

Turns out if you do some dream
analysis research and look up a dream like this you get one answer: no. So much
no. Do I need therapy? Should I get hypnotized and let someone poke around and
see what the fuck is wrong with me? Do they still do lobotomy’s? Does Blue
Shield pay for that? Do I have a brain tumor? Is it because I ate cheese before
I went to bed? Help. I’m applying for a life alert again. This has to qualify
me.

If you have nightmares about sad dicks, I’m not sorry
because I shouldn’t have to be in this alone. The lesson I’ve learned? Always protect
yourself and double pill and double wine. Every time.

Friday, November 13, 2015

I think Jerry is like the best dude name ever. When I
picture someone named Jerry I picture them with permanent plumber’s crack,
busting ass in public and not giving a fuck, and drinking a lot of beer. And peeing
in public. You do you, Jerry. If I was a dude, I’d totally want to be called
Jerry.

You’re probably wondering where the fuck I’m going with
this. Or you’re blacked out and wondering where your pants are and who that
dude snoring on your couch is. I truly hope it’s the latter because I only want
my spirit animals to read my blog.

But last night while drinking some wine, and I mean shit
got serious because I was literally just drinking from the bottle after I found
a super long straw that someone gifted me so I didn’t have to move my arms, while
scrolling through the trolls and hot pieces on OkCupid I had a revelation. Or a
spiritual awakening. Or acid reflux. Whatever the fuck it was. I think I have a
man’s brain.

Throughout my extensive dating career, I’ve learned
something about dudes. No matter how unattractive, uninteresting, unemployed,
and despite having an ant-sized dick, dudes ALWAYS think they deserve a super smokin
hot girlfriend. No fucking joke. It seriously chaffs my very sensitive ass
cheeks when I see a dude who sucks, with a super cool lady friend. For real? I
can smell your ball cheese from here and you’re clearly hiding some balding
issues under that Dodgers hat and there’s more hair coming out from under your
shirt collar than a legit 70’s bush. What is happening? But it’s true. Gross
dudes with hot chicks. It’s a god damn plague.

And I think I might have caught the disease. Maybe it’s
sexually transmitted? I’m pretty sure I got a slight case of Asperger’s through
sexual contact with one of my dipshit exes. Sometimes my vagina loses all
social skills and makes public outings super awkward. So it’s completely
possible I caught the aim way, way too high disease. And obviously there’s not
a cure since it’s still running rampant in the world.

I diagnosed myself after I realized my criteria for
dudes that I would respond to. Ethnic sounding name? Nah. I don’t want to have
to roll my tongue every time I yell at your ass in public for cutting me off at
the bar. Hats in every picture? Nah. I don’t care if you’re bald or balding,
but I need to know what’s going on with your head. Posing with random babes or
porn stars in your pictures? Fuck nah. You’re going to try to put it in my butt
immediately and I’m not going to go into detail, but nothing goes into my
asshole because I don’t trust her. She’s shady as hell. Oh you like rock
climbing, surfing, mountain biking, running, getting out of bed, etc.? NOPE. I
like sitting in a bar, or if it’s a nice day I’ll even be down for an outside
bar, and drinking until everyone seems hotter and funnier. I’ll walk there. But
I’m sure as shit not gonna climb a fucking mountain or swim in the ocean to get
there. NOPE. I could keep going, but I’ll sum this up with I will ignore your
message if one small thing irritates me about you. It could even be that you’re
wearing aviators and I think you have a more of a wayfarer face. Yup. I’m
shallow as all hell.

It made me think, am I aiming for Channing Tatum when I
should be going for Tourette’s guy? If you don’t know who Tourette’s guy is,
first of all SHAME ON YOU, secondly look it up on YouTube immediately. It will
change your life. Also, RIP my friend. But seriously, am I a dude? Trying to
date a Victoria’s Secret model when you look like you just emerged from under a
bridge after terrorizing some fucking goats or children or virgins or whatever.
I also hate cuddling. I get talking about feelings is necessary but it makes me
nauseous and I’d rather get drunk and scream that I hate you and then make you
get me Del Taco and forget I was mad. I like to drink beer and watch war
documentaries and zombie movies and curse and burp and laugh at poop jokes. I
could also be 13 years old.

However, I know I have ovaries and a uterus because I
hate video games and love puppies and like to make babies laugh because it’s
crazy cute when they giggle until they almost vomit and start crying. Does this
mean I’m gender fluid? I don’t have my tits out all the time and shove glitter
in my peesh like Miley Cyrus. So maybe not. I know I don’t want to be a dude
because ew. Am I just fucking nuts? Don’t answer that. Am I one of those
letters from the LQBTQRFHSUO that I don’t know what the fuck it means?

All I know is, I don’t want to be the troll under the
bridge trying to rape models. I don’t know if that’s what I was trying to say
but now that it’s out there I can’t, won’t, am too tired to fix it. I guess
maybe I can give the dude wearing a fedora non-ironically a chance. Actually, no,
no I can’t. Fuck that guy. But maybe I can suck it up and hang out with the
dude that wore dad jeans. Son of a bitch I can’t do that either I’d barf in my
mouth. I could handle the pink polo. No. No no no. I can't. I have to maintain some sort of self-respect after the couch incident.

Monday, November 2, 2015

I don’t want to hate people. Truly. My life would be so
much easier if I thought people were okay and liked being around them and didn’t
mind sharing my oxygen/space/existence with them. Turns out though, people are
mostly shit.

While most people try to make as many friends as
possible and jizz themselves every time they get a Facebook friend request or
new follower on Instagram or someone pokes their tweet or whatever, I’d rather
not. Generally if I get a Facebook friend request I sigh, roll my eyes, and try
to decide the level of awkwardness if I decline or ignore it. If the level of
awkwardness will be less than 80%, request denied mother fucker. You’ll be
worth the “accept” if you’re somewhat entertaining, a complete hot mess, or at
least I know you won’t be talking about your fucking baby or lame ass
boyfriend/girlfriend every 10 seconds. Seriously, fuck your baby. Pictures of
puppies and videos of your cat trying to climb into a box or sneak attacking
your other cat, I’m so down.

I have some friends I guess. I like some of them more
than others. Real talk, if certain people just disappeared it would probably
take me 6 months to 14 years to notice. I’m disgusted by neediness and
clinginess and codependency. I try to understand it, but if I’m really honest
with myself I don’t empathize with it. You can’t wipe your ass without someone’s
permission? Gross. You’d ditch your friends to get some random dick? Die.

I think every year I give less and less fucks about how
many contacts I have in my cell phone. I know I have a handful of ride or dies
that I can text at 3:00 a.m. to ask their opinion on bloody poops and what
level of ass cancer that probably indicates. Being able to block people from
calling/texting is the greatest phone feature that ever happened to me. Oh, you’re
excited that you can watch amateur teen porn on your commute home? I’m excited
that I currently have 112 blocked numbers. To each his own.

I guess I should wait until I’m older to play the
senile, it’s cute when I’m offensive/racist/sexist, card until I’m at least
close to diaper times. But fuck it. I’m gonna play that card now. Let’s be
real, with my lifestyle I won’t have any of those golden years to fart in
public and shrug my shoulders and have people just smile like I laid a fucking
golden egg. That was a mushroom cloud of stored up ass that’s been brewing for
70 years. That’s not cute. Ever. But I’ll play along because I walked to school
barefoot in the snow while battling bears and vampires. I do what I want!

I’m not going to pretend that you’re not a douchebag. I’m
not going to pretend that you’re fun to be around. I’m not going to pretend that
the sound of your voice doesn’t make me want to drown baby mice. (I know, I
know. Baby mice!? I’ve gone too fucking far.) If you’re a shitty person I don’t
have time for it. I never signed a contract that I had to hang out with you. I
need another obligation like I need more ass cancer.

I’ll start caring when people stop sucking. Unless I
wake up one day and have the magical power to turn everyone into puppies and
kittens. That just made me feel something that might be happiness. Oh wait, I
farted.

Wednesday, September 30, 2015

Anyone who's around my age remembers that game Oregon Trail that they pretended was educational, but really just gave me nightmares about shitting myself to death, being murdered by Native Americans or getting bitten by a snake while peeing in a hole and dying immediately. I remember that you died, always. No one lived past the age of 13. Honestly, to me it didn't seem all bad. You went out on top right? With an immaculate vagina and great boobs. I mean I can't be mad about that.

So am I the only one in the world who’s kinda pissed that
our life expectancy has gone from like 50, 60 if you’re lucky, to these fucking
mummies that are living to be like 110? Thank you science but I don’t want to
live to be so old that when I sneeze dust flies out of my vagina and asshole. I
don’t want to become an artifact. I don’t want to wear diapers because I have
to, I only want to wear them because I’m tired and drank a lot and don’t want
to risk another public urination fine. I want the only reason why I would ever
shit my pants in public to be because I made the bad decision to eat Mexican
food, Indian food and chase that with a mocha latte from Starbucks and now I’m
sprinting through the streets drenched in sweat praying that people will think
I fell in some mud because 30 year olds don’t shit their pants. It’s just not
something that happens. (Fact: This probably happens all the time but we’re too
ashamed to admit it. I vow to you that if I ever shit my pants in public I will
tell you. No one should be alone in their shame.)

Honestly when you’re in your 20’s being in your 40’s
sounds SOOOOOOO far away. I mean, with my daily alcohol intake, strictly fast
food diet, caffeine addiction, and monogamous relationship with prescription pills,
I laughed when people talked about my 30th birthday. Aw, that’s sweet that you
think I’ll live to be 30. What a cutie baby.

Somehow, again I’m blaming science and fantastic
genetics, I’m here. I am 30 fucking years worn down. A friend recently described
turning 29, yes I know fuck her youth, as being 25 with shipping and handling.
If that’s true, then 30 is being 28 and getting your ass shipped overseas,
twice, to the countries that don’t have air conditioning and maybe you ended up
in a gutter in the Bronx. Seriously. I’m fucking exhausted. The thought of
doing this for 30-50 more years makes me barf in my mouth. I need a permanent
nap. Someone turn on my Netflix to a documentary.

When you’re young you think who the fuck cares how many
credit cards I have and how much debt I’m in? Is the government going to go
after my dog when I’m dead? (Sidenote to the FEDs: I wouldn’t if I were you. He’s
an angry little bastard.) I’ve always known I wasn’t procreating, so it’s not
like my poor children would be stuck paying for my Chanel shit and wishing they’d
never been born. But what if I’m one of the mummies? I don’t want to be shitting
in a hole outside a Wal-Mart smoking the last part of people’s cigarettes
because I outlived my savings. That’s fucking terrible. Push me into traffic. Seriously.
I’m good.

Now I have to think about 401K’s and retirement plans and all
that other adult shit. Oh I’m not allowed to have nice things because I might need
the expensive adult diapers in 30 years? Cool. Never mind that, I’ll take dumps
into my Chanel purse. Because I have CLASS. I don’t want a husband. They seem
like a lot of work and might have a lot of feelings and “opinions” to suffocate
my hopes and dreams. But god damn. Maybe I should get one so at least I only
have to pay for half of my estrogen cream so my vagina doesn’t shrivel up like
a raisin. I DON’T THINK I CAN HANDLE VAGINA AND ASSHOLE DUST ON MY OWN FOR GOD’S
SAKE.

I think maybe modern medicine and science need to calm
down a little. Maybe start putting weird shit back into our food to even out
the world a little bit. I’ll do my part. I’ll continue to drink more alcohol than
a human should, and consider French fries a vegetable, and I promise to take my
prescription pills like vitamins. And I definitely won’t take vitamins. Nope.
Sorry too busy. Email me.

If you’d like to start contributing to my Go Fund Me
page for my diapers, vagina cream, and cat food for when I’m mummified, that
would be awesome. Or I’ll go on one of those Russian websites and get a
husband. I’m sure he’ll only hit me on Tuesdays, below the face but above the
waist. That’s what a gentleman does.

Also, side rant, no I will not contribute to your Go
Fund Me page for your fucking rabbit that can’t poop correctly and needs the special
pellets so he can shit freely. Are you fucking serious? How about Go Fuck
Yourself? I’ll contribute to that. But seriously, I’ll post links to my page
soon. If you drink one less bottle of wine per week we can have me diapered and
creamed in no time.

Monday, August 31, 2015

Living alone, I’m not counting my furry roommates
because they are senile and possibly autistic rendering them incapable of
normal social interactions, might be turning me into a weirdo.

You never realize what deviant behavior hides inside
your body until you live by yourself and you can let your freak flag fly. When
I had roommates I was tempted to do gross things, like poop with the door open
or drink a beer while pooping or maybe even finish that Chinese food I was
eating that is causing this poop to happen while pooping. But obviously you
shame yourself and close and the door and leave your beer and kung pao chicken
in the kitchen so your roommate doesn’t think you’re fucking mental. Maybe you
even keep it super classy if your roommate is a one-night stand that refuses to
leave and you go poop at the Starbucks down the street. With the door closed
and before you order your coffee so you’re not one of “those” people. By
“those” people I mean who we wish we could be.

I’ve off and on had roommates. Prior to my current
situation I lived with two roommates, some people might call them my parents
but I don’t really believe in titles and quantifying people that way, and it
kept me in check. Sometimes I wanted to not bother brushing my teeth or washing
my hair or putting on pants all day. But I didn’t want the looks of judgment
when I walked by smelling like a dirty diaper with my butt cheeks hanging out.
So I did the damn thing and put on pants and brushed my teeth and maybe even
showered. Unless it was Sunday. Then fuck that. You can’t ask that much of me
on a Sunday. I also never let dishes pile up in the sink, and threw remnants of
smelly food away outside to avoid ever having it cross my roommates’ minds that
my vagina smells like raw salmon, and I kept my ass cheeks under wraps during
business hours.

But now that I’ve been living alone for about 8 months,
shit has gone downhill. I know I’m not the only one. I’ve had a friend describe
how she ordered an extra large pizza, ate half while lying in bed, went into a
food coma, woke up hours later and because the pizza box was still nestled next
to her, ate the rest of the pizza. Bitch ate an ENTIRE extra large pizza. Crust
and all. Would she have done that with a Jax Teller look alike sleeping next to
her? NOPE. She would’ve pretended she was full after 2 slices and then gone to
sleep hungry after having “I wanted more pizza” hate sex with him. Because
that’s how a lady acts.

Another friend told me that he can only do household
chores if he’s butt naked. Vacuuming with pants on? That’s fucking stupid.
Bleaching the toilet while wearing a shirt? FUCK THAT. We’re doing this how we
came into the world. Naked, covered in weird white shit and blood, and possibly
screaming and crying. I picture the screaming and crying coming in when a
little bit of bleach splashes onto his taint during a vigorous toilet
scrubbing. It’s bound to happen. It’s science.

The best is a friend who had lived alone for years. The
shit that has gone down in her apartment would make a show combining
Intervention and Hoarders look like a day at Disneyland. I love her but she has
problems. Her boyfriend was forced to move in with her for a few months after
his apartment was infested with bugs, or prostitutes, or something undesirable.
She called me panicking because she knows she’s a disaster. I told her to
ignore all of her instincts and don’t do ANYTHING she normally does. For
example, I’ve seen this bitch pick up a piece of pizza that fell face down on
cat fur covered carpet and eat it. I get it, pizza is amazing and a piece
should never be wasted. However, if your cheese has fur it’s time to walk away.
Things were going fine until about 2 weeks in. She ignored me and ordered pizza
after I strongly warned her against it. My beautiful friend dropped a piece of
pizza (clearly she has hand-eye coordination issues) which resulting in the pizza
interacting with some cat litter, and she ate it. Her boyfriend claims he heard
crunching. You should not even be doing this ALONE but in front of another
person you’ve hit your bottom. Honestly, I don’t think either of them have
recovered. He may have even just lived in his car until he could move back into
his apartment. I’m not mad at him. I still have nightmares about the cat litter
crunch heard round the world.

I don’t think I’m as extreme as cat litter crunch, but
there are things I catch myself doing that cause me to look around my apartment
to make sure no one saw me. For example, when I got a new vacuum I was really
excited. This is what single and 30 years old looks like, if you weren’t aware.
Splooging over a new vacuum. This is it folks. Of course vacuuming is only
exciting if you’re playing 80’s Madonna tracks and singing “Like A Prayer” like
it’s the only way to save your life. This is what was happening in my apartment
at 11:00 a.m. on a Sunday. You don’t do this in front of other humans. You
might vacuum in front of other humans. You might even sing a little bit. You DO
NOT vacuum while aggressively dancing and sing so loud that someone two floors
down, OUTSIDE, says “God damn” when you’re finished.

Or how about that time I put a bag of CheezIts back in
the box upside down and when I grabbed them later to take to them to bed as my
substitute for sexy time the bottom of the box opened up and I left a trail of
CheezIts. I realized half-way back to bed what was happening and just let it
be. I couldn’t be bothered with cleaning them up. No one was going to step on
them. Also I might need to go back for them depending on how much I lost.

I might even now address inanimate objects in my house. It’s
possible, once or twice, I’ve looked at my microwave and said, “Well ain’t that
some shit?”. Or I’ve commented upon opening my refrigerator, “What in the mother
fucking hell is happening?”. Now I don’t
expect my microwave and refrigerator to respond to these rhetorical questions.
But I am ashamed to admit that if they did, I wouldn’t even be that freaked
out. I told you. It’s gotten fucking BLEAK up in this bitch.

I don’t want my future one night stands reading this to
get scared. It hasn’t gotten to the point where I’m unfuckable. I would die
before it came to that. Seriously. Over the cliff Thelma and Louise style with
my dog and cat (because they would never want to live without me) screaming
Demi Lovato’s “Cool For The Summer” at the top of my lungs without pants on. My
exit from the world would be god damn magical.

For real though, I don’t have things living on my body
like the hoarders. There are no cat carcasses under my sofa. In fact, my
apartment is ridiculously clean because of my cleaning/Madonna/80’s songs obsession.
Also I’m maintaining all the necessary orifices. I literally just had hot wax
ripped off my lady parts and my ass crack yesterday. (Note: Getting waxed in
100 degrees is NOT the business. Someone better hit on me after all this
effort. I’m not fucking kidding.) The transients sniff my hair when I walk by
them so I know I’m also nailing it in that respect as well. A drunk guy even
said to his friend, “I’d fuck her” when they stumbled by me last night. He
could have been talking about my dog, but since he’s not here to ask I’m taking
that win assholes.

I guess I should probably force myself into more human
interactions. It probably wouldn’t ruin me to make eye contact with people in
Vons instead of staring straight ahead and pretending none of this is really
happening. Or grabbing a drink at a bar where other humans are instead of
chugging a bottle of wine at home and harassing my poor blind cat. Then again,
my neighbors probably REALLY need to hear my rendition of “Bad Blood.”
Seriously, you guys. I’m KILLIN IT.

Friday, August 14, 2015

My pact with my dog to abstain from dating in 2015 is going pretty well so far. In general I don't believe in abstinence as a cure for anything. I mean that's why we have condoms, meds, rehab centers, and Lindsay Lohan right? So we can do what we want but try to avoid splooging out a baby behind the gym at Junior Prom and passing around herpes of the rectum. Also we have lots of ideas for staying out of prison while not completing our community service thanks to my all-time favorite ginge.

I decided to put the needle and spoon away and just say no to dating in 2015 for one simple reason: I'm a fucking nightmare. I'm not responsible enough to make good choices. If you look at my track record of the last few years it's consisted of pounding it out with the emotionally damaged, borderline homeless, penile challenged (aka: "Is it in yet?"), emotionally retarded, almost jailbait, and a few whiny motherfucking baby bitches. I'm throwing up in my mouth just recapping this shitshow. When did I eat hot dogs? Weird.

Shutting down the muffin shop and not using the eggplant emoji was probably the most responsible, adult decision I've made since all those times I took Plan B when my dog gave me eyes of judgment and tried to drag me down stairs. Seriously, he's like the unplanned pregnancy whisperer. Thank god someone else can be responsible for what happens in my vagina after 13 whiskey ginger ales.

Not dating hasn't been entirely easy though, I'll admit. I mean when the eggplant emoji disappeared from my recently used options, I felt a twinge of sadness. I haven't gotten a dick pic in months. Scratch that, my friend did send me multiple dick pics of various animals during a trip to a wild animal park. However none of those dicks were an offer so they filled no void. Pun most definitely intended. I can't use first date jitters as an excuse to pregame like I'm in college again before leaving my house. The stench of shit really is much more noticeable on my street when I'm not border line unconscious. Also the transients don't seem quite as friendly when I can see their "fuck this stupid white devil bitch" face clearly. It also sucks that I always have to do all the work, every time. No more pretending to be too tired to return the favor. And let's be real, sex with the same person all the time gets a little monotonous. Even if it's with me...and I'm a good fucking time. Have you ever tried role-playing by yourself? Yeah, shit gets weird.

The one thing that has helped me stay strong and keep this shit on lock down has been the rando dudes from my past that pop up and remind me why men are the cause of all the diarrhea and migraines I've ever had. Seriously. You bastards owe me so much toilet paper and Excedrin Migraine and we might as well throw in the booze I've consumed to pretend you never happened.

There was a dude that I mentioned a while back that I believe I referred to as The Actor. We text flirted for a couple of weeks, then in person flirted, then made out in a parking structure and then homie phantomed; which really pissed me off because that's MY game. I give a one week grace period because I'm a gem like that. If you don't text me a picture of the plane crash you survived or the pamphlet from your grandmother's funeral after that one week period, you are dead to me. So I did the normal thing after not hearing from The Actor after a week. I went to a bar, got super shitfaced and in a toast hoped he died in a car fire. And they say no one has class anymore! But of course, as I'm on my way over to The Beard's house for an adult sleepover before that shit went horribly wrong, The Actor sends a text. I can't remember exactly what it was but it was something about acknowledging I'd written a blog about him being a baby rapist. Now I can't confirm he is a baby rapist. But I also can't confirm he is NOT a baby rapist. It threw me into a rage. You missed the grace period bro! You died in a car fire that caused you much pain and suffering. HOW THE FUCK ARE YOU TEXTING ME!? I was being forced to accept the fact that this bitch was still alive. Ugh. I really, really hate knowing the truth. Also it's like you assholes have this sixth sense that a girl is getting ready to have a bag of dicks shoved in her face/head/upper body area so you need to text her and ruin her joy. NOT COOL. Once you disappear, you're supposed to disappear forever. Seriously. FOR-E-VER.

There's another dude that's been in and out of the picture for like 10ish years now. It's like this whole fucked up will we or won't we scenario. Every time I get comfortable that it's definitely won't, that son of a bitch literally comes barreling back into my life and fucks everything up again. If I'm somewhat touching the genitals of a dude I immediately question everything and generally pull my disappearing act. Then just as he's ruined my entire life...gone again. He's my herpes. With, like, year lapses between outbreaks. But when an outbreak happens, it's god damn awful. He also has that spidey sense when I'm emotionally stable (well as much as I can be) and then Tasmanian devil's the fuck out of my life. I'm pretty sure our last exchange resulted in me drunkenly recording a video wherein I tried to recreate Beyonce's "Single Ladies" music video wearing a bathrobe and possibly a fedora. My blacked out self couldn't even handle what I'd done and deleted all incriminating evidence. Blurry flashbacks are all I have. I have a feeling once I post this thing I'll be having another outbreak. Someone bring me one of those furry donuts to sit on...please thank you.

Finally there is the ex that has never gone away. Like one of those skin tags. They're annoying but it's not worth the dermatologist bill to go get it burned off. You just accept that it's going to be there and sigh when it texts you and you don't know how to respond. I'm not an overly nice or polite person. I'm not the person that someone asks for directions or the friend that you'd expect to bend over backwards for you when you've been a cunt for the past few months. I'm the bitch that will pretend to not notice that you're lost and take a fake phone call. And if you haven't entertained me in some way in months don't fucking call and ask me to help you with something. Sorry, stubbed my vagina yesterday, can't lift my arms or move my head. If an animal needs help I'm all over it. But people? I mean you can call 911, a cutey baby puppy cannot. So despite my inclinations to not really give a fuck I somehow find it in me to be sort of pleasant. I mean, don't get me wrong, it's a struggle. I'm emotionally and mentally exhausted after more than 3 texts have been exchanged. For some reason though I always respond and I'm always nice. So then, of course, because I'm a female, I have to sit and analyze the conversation for anywhere between 3 hours to 3 days and try to understand why I respond and why I'm pleasant and why it even matters. During this time period I am missing out on valuable trolling for dick (TFD) time and that's just not right. The public needs me.

So to these dudes and all the other randos that I hung out with one time or made out with in a bathroom or blew in an alley or whatever, BYE FELICIA. You're supposed to be a part of my fantasy world where anyone who has wronged me has suffered a terrible death. Generally it should involve being eaten alive by tiny little spiders, or burning or having all the skin torn from your body over a several day period, or something of that nature. WHEN YOU TEXT ME I HAVE TO ACKNOWLEDGE YOU LIVE. I have to accept that karma is not on my side and that you're probably having fun sometimes and I don't want to.

Also stop ruining my one night stands. Seriously. Stop. I hate having to explain why "NEVER ANSWER" or "HE FUCKING SUCKS" or "HERPES" is texting me at 3 a.m. when I was trying to find my other shoe to sneak the fuck out of OkCupid date fail #345's apartment. Pretend I was eaten by spiders. You have my permission.

Friday, July 10, 2015

There are two kinds of people in
this world. Well I mean as far as dating and relationships go. Don’t get all
politically correct and crazy. I also watched Pocahontas and know about the
colors of the wind and multiculturalism and all that. Now change your diaper
and simmer down.

There are people who thrive in and want to be in a relationship
and there are people that lose their god damn mind and cannot mentally handle
being in a relationship. You can probably guess which category I fall into. (Reminder:
I have a blind cat and a 17 year-old dog.) The whole idea of being a “we” and
having to consult with another human being about where I’m going, what I’m
doing, how many new shoes I’ll be buying this month and if I had 3 or 33 drinks
yesterday sort of makes me feel like all my insides are going to explode. Yes,
that is a creative way of saying diarrhea.

I see my friends in relationships and sometimes it looks
awesome. I wouldn’t mind having someone who is obligated to hang out with me
all the time and to tell me I’m cute when I wake up in the morning with one
eyebrow still on and my eye shadow on my chin and bring me ginger ale and a
burrito when I’m hungover and leave the house for at least an hour when I have
to poop after the burrito. I wouldn’t hate consistently getting laid and having
date nights with bottles of wine and having someone co-parent my pets (aka
clean the cat box when I’m too hungover and will barf or walk my dog when the
thought of putting on pants would be worse than death). If that’s all it is,
sure, I’m super down.

Then you realize that relationships are also pubes all
over the bathroom and boy pee stains on the toilet seat and fights at 3 a.m.
and jealousy and crying and cheating and a lot of fucked up shit man. Wine and
sex can only fix so much. Why can’t it just be the good stuff? Why do people
need the drama and the talking and the sharing of feelings and joint bank
accounts and shared property and “our song” and the nonsensical bullshit?

I’m not saying that monogamy and marriage and commitment
are dumb. Apparently (allegedly) it does work out for some people. But to be
honest I’ve yet to see a long-term relationship work without one or both people
compromising important aspects of what makes them, them.

I’ve had so many female friends that I adored because
they were independent, confident, fearless, opinionated, bold and drank and
cursed like sailors. My people. Then they meet a dude who’s pretty dull and
bland and suddenly everything lovable about them is gone. It turns into “we don’t
drink during the week” (what the fuck does that even MEAN!?) and the invites
become third-wheel excursions always and suddenly I despise this person. I can’t
even remember what I liked about her. Or the friends that only call you when
their dude isn’t around but want to spend the whole time you’re with them
texting him and bitching about him and being pissed off she’s not with him.
Meanwhile I’m sitting their imagining myself shoving her phone down her throat
or throwing my drink in her face and screaming “PROSTITUTE WHORE!!!” while attempting
to flip the table that is clearly screwed into the floor because of people like
me. I would rather be mauled and have each limb individually ripped off by a
super cute polar bear than be this person. (Note: If I ever do become this
person you have my permission to throw me into a polar bear exhibit at the zoo
and taze anyone that tries to save me. This is a binding document.)

I’d like to believe that in the future, a dude will walk
out of prison a free man, walk into a bar, put a song by The Kills on the
jukebox, order a Moscow mule and will be my long-term one night stand. However,
I also realize that he will likely ride to the bar on a unicorn with his pet Velociraptor
and his leprechaun sidekick. But I’m going to hold out. I’m not going to stop
cursing, drinking, offending white people in public, refusing to wear pants
indoors and letting dishes pile up in my sink because I REALLY, REALLY hate
doing dishes.

I’m not going to pretend I like your mom’s piece of shit
little dog that tries to bite me, or let your weird aunt think I would ever let
you put a baby in me, or stop talking about poop, or hang out with your lame
ass friends that still play video games, or pretend it’s ok that you troll bars
after I go to bed, or let you tell me I can’t keep the TV on all the time, or
let you take the outside spot in bed, or pretend I like to cuddle because I for
the love of god don’t want to be swaddled like a baby with your body.

If not being willing to compromise what makes me awesome
doesn’t work for you, then I guess all I can say is PEACE OUT MOTHERFUCKER. Go
park your U-Haul of bullshit in someone else’s asshole. (Seriously though, nothing
goes in my asshole.) I’ve already come to terms with my cat lady future and all
my silverware matches so as far as I’m concerned, I’m fucking NAILING IT.

Wednesday, July 1, 2015

I’ve learned a lot since I turned 30. I’ve learned that
if you’re going to buy sangria at the grocery store, make sure it already has
the brandy in it. I’ve learned that if you are polite to the transients and let
them talk to your dog like he’s a person they (probably) will not rob or stab
you. I’ve learned that when it’s humid outside your armpits will be constantly sticky,
no matter how much deodorant you put on. I’ve learned that just because someone
was your friend at one time, doesn’t mean they have to be your friend for
always (bye Felicia). I’ve learned that a beard doesn’t fix everything (i.e.
small penis, shitty personality, mommy issues), but being really great at oral
can help. I’ve learned if someone is really god damn annoying it’s ok to block
them on your iPhone, Facebook, Twitter, Gmail, Tinder, OkCupid, Myspace, AIM,
AOL, life, etc. I’ve learned that it’s ok to forgive, but only if it comes with
lots of free drinks, genuine sorrow and should probably involve Chanel
sunglasses. I’ve learned that it’s also ok not to forgive and wish crabs, bed
bugs and herpes of the eye on that son of a bitch. To get all sentimental up in
this bitch, I’ve also learned that real friends text you just to see how your
day went and keep asking questions when they know you’re lying. And I’ve
learned that my family is fucking nuts but I appreciate and adore each one of
them (especially my cutie baby niece who makes my heart hurt every time I see
her) and I need them to keep me grounded and slightly less homicidal (thanks
Mom for the muscle relaxers and wine).

The biggest lesson I’ve learned is that once you turn
30, people feel like they can ask you really fucked up questions and it’s totally
normal. Like all of a sudden you’re ready to discuss your menstrual cycle,
color of your cervix, and admit that your wine and pill relationship is merely to
fill the void of not having a husband and a 3 month old ripping off your nipple
after ripping open your favorite orifice. No one asked me these questions in my
20’s. Let’s do a little comparison between the questions asked at 20, and approximately
72 hours after you turn 30.

The Future/Financial
Stability

In your 20’s:

Q: What are your plans after college?

In your 30’s:

Q: Are you saving up to buy a house? What kind of health
insurance do you have? How’s your pension plan? When do you think you’ll be
able to retire? But seriously, how much money do you have saved to buy a house?

Listen bitches. I’m still on the question about what my
plans are after college. Yes, I realize I graduated college 7 years ago.
However, due to the alcohol consumption and bad decisions made immediately
afterwards, I like to pretend I just graduated a few years ago. And let’s be
real, my only plan for the future is maybe don’t die. Also, fuck your house.

Getting Wifed
Up and Pooping Out a Baby

In your 20’s:

Q: Do you have a boyfriend? (And if the answer is no the
response is always something positive like, “Good, stay single. There’s plenty
of time for that!” or “Enjoy your 20’s. Fuck everyone. Literally.”, etc.)

In your 30’s:

Q: Are you married? How soon can you lock that shit
down? Are you pregnant? How soon can you make that happen? How is your womb?
Are you ovulating right now because I think that guy with the glass eye across
the room is looking at you? Are you at least dating and trying to get a
husband? Have you tried match.com? Have you tried standing on a street corner with
a sign? How depressing is it being single in your 30’s?

Honestly, the fact that I haven’t offed myself yet
should be considered an accomplishment. One year ago people were congratulating
me on being single and married people yearned for my life. Now, people act like
I have a terminal disease or a face tumor and married people look at me with
sympathy and pretend they don’t want to smother their husband/wife with a pillow
every night. What the shit is happening? Shouldn’t I receive a Nobel Peace Prize
or something for not adding to the overpopulation of this country? Shouldn’t I
be high fived for my independence and women’s rights and leaving all the shitty
dudes there for you desperate bitches to have? Shouldn’t it be appreciated that
my downstairs is immaculate and there’s still a solid border between my v hole
and my b hole? So the answer to all the questions about marriage and babies is I’M
MOTHER FUCKING BUSY. Go talk to that bitch on the corner with a sign “Free to
good home.”

Miscellaneous Emotional
Fuckery

In your 20’s:

Q: What bars are you hanging out in now? Did you hear
your ex-boyfriend is dating a super gross 18 year-old? How are your
parents/siblings doing? How’s Hercules?

In your 30’s:

Q: God you STILL hang out at that bar? Did you hear your
ex-boyfriend is married to a super successful doctor and they hatched their
beautiful baby from an egg so she didn’t have to ruin her perfect vagina? Are
your parents still alive? How jealous are you that your brother has a really
adorable baby? Holy shit that dog is still alive!?

Okay. First of all, I don’t go to church, I go to
mimosas. Freedom of religion bitches. You sit in a pew, I sit on a barstool.
Mind your business. Yes, you would be the 11th person to tell me how well that
rancid turd is doing. Also that baby will realize it has a turd and a twat for
parents so I still WIN. I swallow my potential accidents. Yup, I said it.

My parents are still alive. Because they are in their 50’s
and I am ONLY 30 GOD DAMMIT. Also I realize that my older siblings are married,
with houses, and doing great. You don’t need to bring that to my attention. I
wake up in my studio in the ghetto every morning with a dog pressed up against
my asshole and a cat screaming in my face for food. Life choices. Turns out if
I decided to convince the dude with the glass eye at the bar that I’m ready to
lose my virginity and try it bareback I could poop out a baby. However, I’m not
sure if glass eyes are genetic and I’d rather just adore my baby niece and buy
her shoes instead of food, diapers, etc. And lastly, my dog will outlive us
all. See you at the end of days mother fuckers.

Next time you’re tempted to ask me, or any 30 year-old
who’s nailing it in her own way, a question that would require actual words
that would interrupt the flow of that margarita going down the throat, shut
your mouth. Then go home and ponder not shanking your husband while I go home
and drink wine on my couch without pants on. LIFE WIN.

Wednesday, April 8, 2015

I know, I've been missing for a while. I'm sure you've been rocking back and forth in your room, sobbing and sweating and refreshing your browser for weeks waiting for this moment. WELL I'M BACK MOTHERFUCKERS!

I'll explain my absence. Obviously my favorite topic is dating and how lame the dudes that enter my orifices are. Well I made the brave and heroic choice that I was not going to date this year. Yup. Muffin shop is closed, be back in 2016. Consider my downstairs a condemned building that not even the transients want to hang out in. Actually that's not true, the transients that live on my porch fucking love me.

I made this decision based on looking through my phone at the texts I had from the last dudes that have put it in me. Turns out they were all fucking assholes. Seriously. Not one redeeming quality among the entire group. I didn't even find them entertaining. My emotions ranged from pity to complete disgust to blind hatred. I stopped giving pity fucks in my early 20's. Sorry ya'all missed out. So I decided since I'm obviously incapable of getting naked with decent human beings, I'm saying no to the entire male population. Bye OkCupid. Bye Tinder. Bye Felicia to all the twat buckets I deleted from my phone. I'M FUCKING BUSY.

Honestly not dating has been going better than expected. I'm saving money by only buying my own drinks. Leeches. I rarely ever have to put on pants after 7 p.m. I don't have to share my wine with anyone. And my dog loves me even more because I'm not making him sleep next to a smelly, hairy dude. The best part is that I can get super blacked out, make out with my Uber driver and not have to apologize to anyone. Seriously, Saturday night shit got real.

Just when you think your life is kind of nailing it, you have dinner with your friend who reminds you that you're 30 years old now and your vagina is going to betray you and stop liking dick soon. Like not tomorrow soon, but the kind of soon where you think it's super far away and then one day you wake up and your lady parts have packed a suitcase and moved to Hawaii to live out their days in a Leisure World on the beach. Or in medical terms your shit is dried up like a Saudi desert and not enough lube in the world can resurrect it. Basically it was like scared straight, but I guess scared slutty would be more accurate. Suddenly I wanted to rub genitals with everyone, everywhere. If you don't use it, do you lose it!? I'm not going to wait around to see what the answer is.

Because face to face interactions with people is exhausting and I'm mentally incapable of conversation after 6 p.m. on weekdays, it was back to my abusive boyfriend OkCupid. I've been back for a little bit now and this is what I've learned. There are only four types of dudes in the world. And this is why I will die alone.

1. The dude who thinks he's a great lay.

This is the guy who sends you one witty message and then in response to your even wittier message (because I've got it like that) immediately goes into detail at how great he is at eating pussy. It may even be the only thing written on his profile. I have learned from many, terrible experiences that any guy who says he's amazing at oral is going to flop around in your vagina like a dying walrus. There's going to be spit everywhere and you're going to have to apologize to your peesh for letting this happen to her for weeks. If you have to talk about how great you are at something, I'm going to assume I'd rather walk into traffic then let you violate my clitoris. So if you've dated me, and told me you were a great lay, and I never talked to you again, you were wrong. Go read a fucking book man.

2. The hot mess.

I'll admit I'm kind of a nightmare. Case in point, as mentioned before last Saturday I blacked out, made out with my Uber driver (who still charged me, fucker), passed out on my bathroom floor and then dragged my dog on a walk at 2 a.m. so he wouldn't shit my bed at 6:00 a.m. Obviously I have some emotional problems. But because I'm a disaster, I attract the dudes who are like "Hey, I like to get drunk and rage too!". This translates to: I will drink way more than I can handle, grope you in a parking structure and then if you're too inebriated to realize it's a bad idea, you'll take me home and then I'll pee in your bed and make your dog hate you for always. As much as I can't handle being a person sometimes, I've never peed a bed, vomited a bed, or shamed myself in front of a one night stand. If I'm telling you to get your shit together, you probably should.

3. The I'll fucking wife you on the second date guy.

If you haven't already guessed, I'm not looking for a husband. All I want is to hang out with someone cool who likes brunch and won't try to convince me that my dog is spoiled and I need to "discipline" him. He's 107 years old, he does what the fuck he wants, get over it. But there's always that guy that thinks he can change my mind. For example, I met an older dude and thought at the very least he could pay for his own shit and maybe mine. We hung out and I guess I mentioned my affinity for French Bulldogs. I might be slightly obsessed with them. Perhaps I've already decided that mine will have one eye and be named Pierre. (Make note if you try to wife me that this is your future.) Day after date one, when I'd already decided I could do silver fox sexy but wrinkled balls were not going to be on this youthful chin, dude sends me a picture of a frenchie. That he wanted to adopt. TO BE OUR DOG. Good. God. You want to combine my daddy issues, with your mommy issues, and you don't think we're going to end up on an episode of Snapped? No.

4. The guy with the lying bitch of a mother.

Mothers, stop telling your unemployed, boring, unattractive sons that they're hot pieces of ass and shouldn't settle. What you should be telling them, if you cared about the rest of us, is that they're not great and if a lady is willing to settle they should be grateful and treat her well and pay for her drinks. I'm sick of meeting dudes that have really nothing going for them, but because their mom told them so, they think they're better than everyone. If you're a hairy troll with no sense of humor and nothing to offer, stop acting like you're Channing Tatum. I know my limits. I know where I stand in the world and I high five myself and give compliments frequently when I nail a 8 or 9. I might even buy him brunch and not throw up near him when I drink 80 mimosas. My mom tells me I'm great all the time but I'm not a fucking moron and I know I came from her womb so of course to her I'm fantastic. Dudes, if your mother tells you you're better than everyone, hands down you're a 3 or a 4. Own it and stop being such a fucking dick.

In summary, I've gone back into retirement. Until I run out of money to buy my own drinks, I'm staying here with my wine and my dog and without pants. CALL THE COPS, I DON'T GIVE A FUCK.

Monday, February 23, 2015

I don’t want this to turn into another commentary of bitches bitching about other bitches. But for real, I am over the cuntiness that envelopes my life sometimes.

I’d love to have a large group of lady friends that I adore and can hang out with and have a circle of trust where farting and break outs and eating really disgusting fat kid food is accepted and appreciated. However I’m pretty sure this dream lives on “Ain’t Gonna Fucking Happen” island along with all the decent dudes and unicorns and midgets that don’t run away from me. In real life, I think it’s super rare to have a group of girls that doesn’t contain at least one Cunty Carol.

Cunty Carol is the girl that gives you a back-handed compliment and then hugs you. She hugs you so tight that even if you went with your instinct to bitch slap her so hard her teeth would fall out the back of her head, you're physically incapable due to the bear hug that's happening. By the time she releases your body, you're so grateful it stopped that you let it pass and satisfy yourself by picturing her super fat with acne. We know her. We hate her. You might even be her.

My new favorite thing that the Cunty Carol's of the world do is compliment your ex-boyfriend. Listen, I don’t know any female in the entire world who wants to hear positive things about the dude that ruined their life for a given period of time. I don’t care how “adult” you are and how much you’ve gotten over the life ruiner and you’re all happy and zen and mother fucking peace to the world and all that bullshit. You’re not a human if you actually wish them the best and hope their life gets better after you. It’s something that you say so people can admire how positive and grown up you are. (Oh look at Jenn, she’s just so great and such a positive person!) I can pretend that this empty orifice in my chest area has a heart and smile and make pleasant noises when someone says an ex is doing well. (Wow, I’m so glad to hear he has a great job and awesome new girlfriend that he’s super into. Sooooo happy for them!) But truly, all I want to do is punch you right in your face and let Mike Tyson bite off all your ears. And women know this. We all know it’s fucked up. Yet we’ve still got those Cunty Carol's that not just cross the line, that bitch squats and takes a shit on the other side of the line. Next time you open your twatty mouth and try to tell me that I’m wrong about this person that I slept with, basically lived with, and spent all my time with here’s what’s going to happen. I’m going to kick you straight in your downstairs. Yup. I hope my toe goes right into your clitoris and sprains it. I hope every time you let a gross dude put it in you, you remember me and you shudder and cry a little.

I’ve even experienced this from friends that I don’t think are intentionally trying to be an asshole. Maybe they are, hence my female trust issues. It’ll be a somewhat innocent comment about something they’ve seen on Facebook or Twitter or whatever cool social media is happening today. But sometimes those little pieces of information feel like a fucking punch to the throat. Where you feel your voice go up super high and this psychotic smile plasters on your face and you start trying to serve people food and drinks and hold someone’s baby. Anyone’s baby. GIVE ME A FUCKING BABY BEFORE I BURN THIS PLACE TO THE GROUND!!!!!!!!!! If I don’t follow my ex on Facebook, wouldn’t that be a pretty big indication I don’t want to know what he’s doing? I check obituaries so I’ll know if the mother fucker is dead. That’s about all the information I need. And that’s just so I know what bars I can start frequenting again. (Yup, I went there. Not sorry.)

So to all the Cunty Carol's of the world, next time you feel yourself opening that hole in your face that should really only have dicks in it so you can’t speak, imagine me kicking you. Hard. In your downstairs. Because I’ve had enough of your shit and woman power and feminism and all that is great. But if that means I have to sit back and let you intentionally Regina George me, NOPE.

If you consider me a friend and you’re reading this and know you’ve done this, feel free to buy me a drink next time we’re out and apologize. Also, you might want to check and see if I’m wearing studded boots.

Wednesday, January 7, 2015

In general I don't believe in making New Years Resolutions. Why bother? We all know we're not going to remove money from our beer fund to give to charity, or stop masturbating to infomercials, or refrain from blacking out and sending messages to dudes on OkCupid telling them their mother doesn't love them. What would be the point in living? However, I have decided to make some resolutions that I know I can keep and that will not better my life or anyone else's. You're welcome.

Resolution #1:

Drink more, but better booze. Because I'm worth a $15.00 bottle of wine and I'm a mother fucking grown up with a real job. Also I'd prefer to have a manageable hangover on Wednesday morning as opposed to one of those hangovers where you have to blink a lot to prevent your brain from exploding. I would also like to not have to constantly reassure my coworkers that I'm not pregnant. Pretty sure I've been eyed near stairs. That ain't a baby bitch, that's a burger.

Resolution #2:

Date more shitty dudes. I mean that's really all there is anyway, right? I'm pretty sure all the great bearded wonders are on an island called "Ain't Gonna Fucking Happen" with the unicorns and leprechauns and forest nymphs. However if I do find this island someday I promise to NEVER TELL ANY OF THE REST OF YOU BITCHES. Because women don't share. That's why we can't be President. Also if I stopped dating shitty dudes what would I do with my life? Be content and fulfilled? Gross. Anger bangs are the new monogamy.

Resolution #3:

Get more tattoos. A shit ton more. I'd like to test the limits and see how many tattoos I can cover my body with before corporate America has a stroke. Also this albino skin is the perfect canvas so who am I to waste that? My first one in the new year should probably say "Daddy Issues" in black light ink. I mean, might as well mix art and function. Also, women's rights.

Resolution #4:

Travel more. I've traveled a lot within the U.S. but I've never left the country (besides Canada which was rad) and I feel like other countries need to know about me. I already know the Australians are into this because I've had quite a few of their tongues in my mouth. And I maybe allowed one to put it in me while in bed with my passed out friend. Allegedly. I can also confirm the Irish aren't scared of my blackouts and dirty talk from an Irishman is maybe one of the best things ever. I think it's about time I terrorize the French, German and Spanish. Summer 2015: start manscaping now gentlemen. I'm pretty sure the whole point of traveling abroad is to explore monuments, and other people's bodies.

Resolution #5:

Return text messages in a timely manner. Unless it's from a dude. Then wait 3 days to 3 weeks. Depending on how many other dude texts I'm ignoring at the same time.

Resolution #6:

I will stop being the "bigger person" if that means letting a dude act like a fucker. No I do not want to be your friend after you bone me a few times then decide you'd like to bone some boring bitch but I should be cool with it so you don't have awful dating karma for the next 3 years. No. My friends are fun and awesome and I don't let them penetrate me. (Mostly.) I'm good on the friend quota, thanks. I will be the "vengeful person" and wish you horrible, terrible things and possibly try to hit you with my car when I see you walking down the street. Allegedly. Also I hope you get crabs.

Resolution #7:

Embrace the booty. Turns out 2015 is the year of the ass. I know this because during brunch on the first day of the year I encountered the most incredible ass I've ever seen. It was epic. I know the word epic is used incorrectly all the time but seriously, it works in this case. You could put your pitcher of margaritas on it AND bounce a small child off of it. It almost brought a tear to my eye. Therefore, I am proclaiming 2015 the year of the badunkadunk and will be knocking your toddlers over at Bevmo with mine. And I won't be sorry. (Dear parents, if you bring your child to Bevmo and it is blocking my path to the $0.05 wine sale I will trample it. You've been warned.)

Resolution #8:

This is my one resolution that is outrageous and much like promising to stop day drinking or truly feel happy for your friend and her super great boyfriend or not to fart in your bosses office when she's not there; but I'm going to give it as much effort as a porn star pretending she's into the nasty dude railing her. I'm going to immerse myself in new places and new people. I'm pretty comfortable in the people that I surround myself with now and moving back to the LBC isn't a huge deal since I've lived here off and on for years. But I think I've always been closed off to truly making this city my home and embracing all the weirdos that live here. I'm going to go sit at bars by myself and talk to old men, saucy women and douchey dudes. I'm going to get to know my neighbors and find out what their story is. (I am NOT going to fuck my neighbors. LESSON LEARNED.) I'm going to embrace socially awkward situations with humor and whiskey. And I'm going to FUCKING NAIL IT.

So here's to 2015 being a boozier, boner-filled, magical year. Cheers mother fuckers.